


N Equals One

by SashaNine



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Lab Partners, Magical Theory, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaNine/pseuds/SashaNine
Summary: “Onua would have me for horse feed if she thought I was roping you into one of my mad experiments.”Daine sees how Numair works. Numair sees how Daine works.A cozy slice of life set before and after the main plot of RotG.
Relationships: Numair Salmalín/Veralidaine Sarrasri
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue takes place in the spring before D/N enter the Divine Realms; main story picks up (and domestic fluff commences) about four months after the war ends. Adult Daine, canon relationship. References to sex and violence and Tempests and Slaughter :)

The late-spring grasses on the coastal hill were sparse and wind-blown, but at least they carried the flavor of the salt air. Cloud and Spots milled about on tired legs, making one last pass at the ground before sleep overtook them. Tkaa, who needed little sleep, combed the starlit beach below for morsels of pyrite and jasper-agate. Kitten had opted to stay in the basilisk's pouch and would be fast asleep by now, lulled by his loping stride.

Numair sat across the fire from Daine, eyes closed and large hands resting on his knees. Since they’d last set out from Corus, he’d taken to long meditations each night after Daine retired to her bedroll. When she'd mentioned his newfound discipline one morning, he’d reddened about the neck and said something academic about the importance of control. Daine let sleeping dogs lie. Reserving his Gift for war emergencies was clearly hard on him, albeit needful, and she thought it no shame whatsoever if things were starting to slip — but she knew Numair wouldn’t appreciate her saying so. When there was no help for something, he preferred to struggle privately.

Part of her worried he was losing sleep he could ill afford, but the silhouette of his posture against the night sky stayed reassuringly tall and straight. There was a comforting nearness in the rise and fall of his broad chest and the steady lunar glow of his magical aura. Daine couldn’t see the latter directly, but the horses were aware of it, and she of them.

Both mages had slept uneasily for weeks, exhausted though they were. They’d been on the move almost constantly, their skills in demand to help Rider groups or the Own out of deadly predicaments and push back the Immortals working in concert with foreign raiders. Most nights, the memories of what they’d seen blended into nightmares, but tonight Daine struggled even to reach the nightmare stage. Worries about exposing Kit to so much danger, and about the People who’d suffered in the last attack, wouldn’t leave her alone.

Most of all, she kept seeing the filthy-fur-clad Scanran aim his black steel throwing axe at Numair’s back while the mage held red-gold Stormwing fire off of fleeing fisher-folk. The raider’s axe had fallen from his hand just a heartbeat before disaster as Daine’s arrow had skewered the man’s stubbled throat.

What might have happened didn’t bear thinking about, but damned if she could stop.

When tears of frustration finally threatened to well up, Daine refused them and sat up among her blankets, bleary-eyed and resigned. If sleep wouldn’t come, better to listen to the night birds’ idle opinions and stare at the sparks rising from the campfire than to spend the night buried under worries and what-ifs. She sniffed once, resolutely, and wiped the traces of water from her eyes.

Numair’s concentration must have been fragile, or perhaps he’d simply meditated enough. His posture relaxed a fraction and his eyes fluttered open.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked lightly.

There was no point in lying. “‘S worse than usual,” she admitted. She pulled her cloak closer against the night air.

“Would you like to meditate?”

Daine’s frown melted a bit at his delicate phrasing — it was an unspoken truth that being _invited_ to meditate was nice, in contrast to being _advised_ to meditate, which was infuriating. Numair would know that, of course.

“I tried, some. I guess I’m too tired, or my head’s too turned about.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, voice low with sympathy. He paused a moment, then offered, “Is there anything that I can do? It might help to talk about it. Or some tea, perhaps?”

Daine shook her head. “We’ve been out of those herbs since Nacra.”

He didn’t press the other suggestion, so they listened to the breaking of the waves for a while. She’d confided in Numair about her troubles plenty of times, it was just that talking worked better when the worries weren’t so grounded in reality. Sometimes the only remedy was distraction.

Suddenly she knew what she needed.

She hesitated, not wanting to impose. Numair had been distant lately, especially nights like this when Tkaa went wandering and they made camp on their own. When she was honest with herself, she thought it might not only be the strain, but perhaps some reasonable resentment at being deployed for weeks on end with only a young, half-civilized woman for human company. He was fond of her, as always, and she more than pulled her weight in the fighting and spying — but his lettered colleagues and beautiful, cultured lady-friends were together in Corus while Numair was here, more or less alone with Daine. If it grated a little, she could understand that.

On the other hand, she wouldn’t be much use to him or the Crown without sleep, and his offer had sounded sincere enough. Numair was nothing if not kind; he’d want to help her if she needed it.

“Can you — teach me something?” It came out quieter than she’d intended.

To her relief, a hint of a smile crossed his lips and he inclined his head, tiredly but not begrudgingly. “Of course. What shall be the topic of the lesson?”

They hadn’t had formal lessons in well over a year. Sometime before Carthak they’d moved on to wide-ranging discussions over meals or by the fireplace, talking about the many books Numair passed on to her (phrased as gifts rather than assignments) or untangling the occasional shapeshifting or healing quandary. And since the war began in earnest, there’d rarely been time or energy for those conversations either. The word brought memories of a different time.

She watched the foamy crests of waves just visible in the dark distance. “Something about the sea’d be nice.”

“Hmm.” He fed the fire a few more branches, then resumed his tailor’s seat. “Your knowledge of marine life surpasses mine, by now...naval history might cure your insomnia, but it’s hard to convey without more maps...... _Ah_.” At that his smile crept up to his black-fringed eyes.

With lashes so plush and dark, he didn’t need kohl like Kaddar, Daine thought. She could almost pet them.

She blinked to clear her head of daft notions, born of sleep deprivation no doubt.

“What do you know of mind magic?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said curiously. “That doesn’t sound like a sea thing.”

“Oh, but it is. Listen well, magelet, you’re in for an analogy.”

His voice took on the avid, storytelling quality that meant he particularly relished the topic. “You’ll recall that beyond the shore, scholars describe the ocean waters as possessing layers, according to how much light reaches them.”

“Sunlight, Twilight and Midnight,” Daine recited their names. She pictured the fine ink-and-watercolor diagram that hung in the library at the Swoop, the words illuminated in gold leaf calligraphy on bands of darkening blues.

“And possibly more, in the darkest depths. Each layer has its own plant and animal life, its own temperature and currents, and the deepest areas are the hardest for explorers to reach.”

Daine thought of the sun-loving sea turtles and incisive, deep-dwelling octopi of her acquaintance — and the bloodthirsty kraken who’d lurked far below in inky blackness.

“The mind, Daine, is like the sea in that respect. Those who study the mind conceptualize it as having three layers, or levels — at least there are three that are known.

“The first and outermost, the Sunlight layer if you will, is called the Conscious. The things we see, hear, taste and so on make impressions on its surface, like raindrops falling into water, creating ripples. Such impressions weave together to form all that we know and experience as we go through life.”

Daine was staring in fascination, the firelight flickering in her wide blue-gray eyes. “When I sense the People, or immortal creatures...are those raindrops, too?”

“Oh, yes. Our magical and physical senses both make impressions upon the Conscious, which is why young mages often conflate them — why you used to think that you heard the People’s voices with your ears, rather than your mind,” he explained.

“Speaking of magic,” he went on, “each level permits of various workings, but the Conscious is the most amenable to them. You have quite some talent in that vein, come to think of it.”

“I think you have me confused for someone else,” Daine said dryly.

He held up a hand. “Consider — when you ride along with one of your friends, you transfer sense impressions from her mind into yours. That’s a classic example of a first-level working. Though doing it at a distance and across species is specific to your power, I believe.”

Something flickered in Daine’s memory. “When you first trained me, you put a sort of vision in my head. Was that...?”

“When I showed you magical auras? Absolutely, that’s much the same. I’m glad you remembered.”

“I doubt I could forget,” said Daine, smiling. “You had me almost ready to bolt, standing behind me in the dark, all mysterious. And me not even really believing I had magic. But then it was…wondrous.”

“That barn owl scolding you was a new one, not to mention the undine.” His smile turned sheepish. “I didn’t mean to unsettle you, by the way. In fact, I’m certain that I was trying _not_ to alarm you. I’m lucky you put up with my strange ways.”

“You wouldn’t be you without them,” she assured him.

“And that brings us to the next part of the lesson.”

He gathered his thoughts, fishing a stick of salt-encrusted driftwood from his pocket. He tossed it in his hand a few times, then wedged it into the fire, where it caught with an odd pink-lavender flame.

“The second level of the mind is known as the Subconscious, so named because it exists below the Conscious. Not that words like ‘below’ mean terribly much in this context,” he said crookedly. “We’re not normally aware of our Subconscious, but we can see it when we meditate, if we look inside ourselves. That’s where we find our will, and any magical power at the will’s command."

“That pool of fire…” Daine whispered. “And the core in the middle, the white light...that’s what makes us human, you told me once.”

“That’s right — the core is one’s essence, or human self. It contains all of the memories, instincts and other attributes that define our humanity, and that make us individuals.

“Now, there’s a fascinating interplay between the first and second levels of the mind. Impressions sink down into memory; old memories rise back up to conscious awareness. The Scrolls of Eidolon even posit that Lord Gainel’s servants swim in our essences when we dream, stirring up disparate thoughts and memories to the interface of Conscious and Subconscious.”

Daine let out a low, Kitten-ish whistle. “Do you know, I always wondered how things got from out there” —she gestured vaguely at their surroundings— “to in here,” she tapped her head. “And what ‘in here’ was, really. I asked Ma about it once, but she just said my head was in the clouds, and to tend to what was under my own two feet,” she said, a bit wistfully.

“There’s wisdom in that, too,” Numair said charitably.

“I suppose you’d know, since you’re big enough to do both.”

Numair laughed, the sound sinking into Daine’s heart like rain on dry earth. “Imagine the cost of tailoring,” he said, still chuckling. He shook his head. “In any case, I had those same questions before I started studying the discipline.”

“Did you learn all this from reading?”

“Not entirely. I had lessons in it during my mastery studies, and more when I studied for the black robe. Of course, books and scrolls were involved at every stage. I have some of the foundational texts at the palace...”

It was critical to change the subject before he could start listing them. “Is focus magic a kind of mind magic?” Daine interjected.

Numair seemed to choke on the air, coughing, and when he recovered he looked like he’d seen the Black God himself.

“What would make you say that?” he asked warily, eyes locked on Daine as if she were a hungry lion.

“Well...” she said, bemused, “it was in that book. Um, _Keys to Sympathetic Magic_. There was something about that...essence, the human self, in the chapter on focus spells. But I didn’t understand it at the time.”

Numair rubbed his face and seemed to compose himself, though he still looked ill.

He must not like to think of focuses, Daine realized with an inward wince. Probably for good reason — some of the examples in the chapter had been bone-chilling, and that had only been a brief treatment of the subject. Numair’s knowledge would be far more detailed. She could only hope he’d never been called upon to use one. It would be exactly the kind of thing that would tear him up inside, no matter how the enemy forced his hand or how many innocent lives it spared.

He cleared his throat. “Right, uh...yes, she would have mentioned it. Focus magic is not formally a branch of mind magic, but a focus is a conduit to the essence of the person who owned it. That is what makes it possible to work spells remotely that would otherwise require the subject to be present.”

“Like controlling the will,” Daine said softly.

“Among other things, yes. Such magics are never to be trifled with,” he said grimly. He rubbed his forehead, frowning. “Though...it should be said that enchanting a focus does not require ill intent, not inherently.” Now he was avoiding her eyes, which did nothing to hide his pained expression. “There are circumstances in which they can be...necessary, for the preservation of life…”

So he _had_ had to use one, she thought. She regretted bringing it up. She wanted so badly to smooth the crease between his brows and tell him that she knew, she _knew_ he was good and gentle-hearted, no matter what folk might think of things he’d done. No matter what he himself might believe.

“Magelet, I…” He took a long, ragged breath, then let it out with a sigh. It seemed the cost was too great. He built himself a small, sad smile. “I’m glad you read the book I gave you. The gods blessed me doubly, with a diligent student and a skilled protector. May the knowledge keep you safe,” he said quietly.

Daine could tell that wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but she gave him the same courtesy he’d given her. If he wanted to talk about his troubles another time, she’d be there when he was ready.

“Thanks, Numair, truly. It’s because of you I know how to help the ones I love. I’ll never forget that.”

He nodded tightly and looked down again, but his expression seemed a little less burdened.

Daine looked to the edge of their camp; twin patches of silver and a sound like the lowest note of a flute neared in her magical senses. “That’ll be Tkaa and Kit back.” Funny, how the strangest strangers could become the most welcome friends.

There was an eight-foot-tall shimmer as the basilisk crossed Numair’s protective circle. “The mages confer,” he observed in his amused, polyphonic whisper by way of greeting.He balanced a clutch of pebbles in one hand, his dull-silver talons and some of the rocks glinting in the low light of embers.

“Perhaps you would like her back,” he said to Daine, gathering the sleeping Kitten from his pouch with his free hand and gracefully lowering her into Daine’s waiting arms. She whispered him thanks and slid back into her bedroll, smelling the ocean mist on Kit’s head and snuggling her soft, scaly body under the blankets.

“Since you are awake,” Tkaa addressed Numair, “I have thoughts about navigating the marshlands.” The two went to Numair’s pack for the map and discussed briefly, keeping to hushed tones so as not to disturb Kitten.

Tkaa returned to the fireside to sort out his bounty and Numair found his own bedroll, turning to Daine before he laid down. “Let’s continue another time, if you feel able to rest now,” he said, very softly.

But Daine barely heard him; she was drifting away into a peaceful slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

Kitten lay curled up and lightly snoring atop a hoard of ribbons and hair ties. Most belonged to her guardians, though there were one or two brocaded items that looked alarmingly like Thayet's style. The fall social season, both subdued and celebratory following the end of the war, had brought plenty of tempting objects in reach of clever forepaws.

The room around her was stylish, with soft rugs and upholstery in shades of stone and sky. It was lit for reading at the moment, the warm white light coming from no obvious source. Small projects tended to migrate in from the corner workroom, and writing supplies from the study next to it: Numair had favored the sitting room lately, when his work could survive minor distractions. Visitors came often to enjoy the birdseed on the windowsill or the bowl of fresh water by the hearth.

Daine had moved in as the leaves had changed, and in the same incremental manner. Summer nights had seen her falling asleep on Numair’s sofa, then in his bed where it was more comfortable, then entangled in his bed, and soon enough it was _their_ bed and neither of them spared much thought for it. A quick word and the stewards had brought a second wardrobe and extra sconces. Daine’s books, so many of which had been Numair’s originally, rejoined their flock.

Daine herself lounged on one end of the sofa, scratching the handsome gray-and-white tabby in her lap. He’d limped in dramatically on a bitten toe, telling tales that (Daine hoped) greatly exaggerated the size and ferocity of palace cellar rats. The Wildmage had made short work of the injury, but her guest saw no compelling reason to relinquish his throne.

Numair sat at the square dining table, several wavy locks having escaped their tie over the evening’s absentminded raking. Books and scrolls had cropped up around him like mushrooms, subjected to ravenous leafings and finger-tracings and stacked haphazardly wherever there was room.

A few times, Daine thought she felt him eyeing her, only to see him reading again when she turned. When the cat asked if she knew she was being hunted, Daine decided it was time to intervene.

“Who was it, then?”

The tall mage surfaced from his heavy tome, blinking like an owl in daylight.

“Beg pardon, love? I must have missed what you said before.”

“I’ve seen this mood,” Daine said knowingly. “Someone asked you a hard question, and it’s been pecking at you ever since. Probably a wild magic thing, the way you keep squinting at me.”

Numair shook his head in surrender. “That’s uncanny. You know me far too well.”

“Was it Lindhall? I’d be surprised if a student could vex you quite like this.”

“A student has managed to vex me once or twice, I seem to recall” he said, eyes twinkling. “But it was Baird this time. We had lunch together,” he explained, before Daine could wonder what must have been scorched or stung for Numair to see an actual healer.

“Must’ve been a tough question, to confound the likes of you,” she mused.

“It was.” Marking his place with a clean slip of parchment, he closed his book and dropped it onto the nearest stack. He lowered himself into the opposite crook of the sofa and reclined, legs stretching out diagonally under the low table. Brown wool socks covered his huge feet.

“The duke and I were discussing some particulars of how the Gift is replenished after a draining. Do you remember how that works?”

Daine bit back a smile — ‘discussing particulars’ meant the kind of hair-splitting, jargon-filled debate for which Numair had endless energy.

She dug for what she knew about the Gift. A morning ride on the way back from Dunlath — that was it. Numair had been melancholy, so she’d asked him to explain again about the opals, and when he’d turned to answer she’d used her new talent to sprout a prodigious set of horse whiskers. Courtly manners were too ingrained for him to mention a lady’s chin bristles, but he’d spent the whole conversation trying, and mostly failing, not to laugh.

Daine had been paying attention, though.

“It’s the life force,” she recalled carefully. “It makes extra energy for you to use as magic. When you rest, the energy builds back up again, like a grain silo. That’s why Gifted folk are so keen on opals, so you can set more by when you have it.”

“Precisely. And that’s a nice analogy. I’ll have to remember it when I teach.”

Daine didn’t feel the need to remind him that it had been his analogy, she’d just remembered it. She’d thought it sweet, and very like him, for Numair to compare his kind of power to something benign and of the earth like grain. Their encounter with Tristan had left him ruminating and that was the first time he’d sounded like himself again.

“So,” Numair went on, “Baird was curious whether wild magic is depleted through use. I said it is.” He scratched his jaw, thinking. “In retrospect, he may have been changing the subject. He was losing the argument.”

“I thought it was a discussion?” Daine smirked.

“It would’ve been, if he’d listened. But that’s right, isn’t it, about your magic?”

Daine thought about it, stroking the tabby’s silky-soft belly to raucous purring. “Yes, it must be. I can talk and listen all day, but healing tires me a fair bit, if it’s serious. And shifting too, especially the mixed-together forms." One hand drifted to the badger’s claw. “It’s not like when I had the Hag’s power, but it’s not just normal tiredness either, I don’t think.”

Numair nodded. “That’s as I thought. When you use a lot of power you sleep as much as I do, and your appetite is a marvel of the Eastern Lands,” he said playfully. “Well, of course, then Baird wanted to know whether wild magic is _replenished_ in the same manner as the Gift; whether it comes from life force energy. And I had to admit that I don’t know.”

“Who’s running the infirmary, with him dead from the shock?”

“Laugh all you like; I can happily admit when I need to do more research. Not that it did me much good, this time...” He glanced at the dining table, seeming to notice for the first time just how many books had accumulated.

He tugged at his nose, then shook his hand away with a quiet oath. Sarge had gently poked fun at him the previous week, noting that “our short but relatively smart friend here” could sense Daine chewing a thumbnail from a hundred paces, but was oblivious to his own constant fidgeting. Numair was trying to prove him wrong, but decades of control exercises didn’t seem to translate to scholarly mannerisms. Daine had technically agreed to remind him, but secretly she was far too fond of the habit.

Numair stuck his hands behind his back. “My intuition says there may be something different at work. I’ve always found it notable that wild magic runs through the body, entirely unlike the aura of the Gift. But that’s about all I can say with confidence, and-”

“Reasoning without information is fruitless?” Daine dryly preempted the familiar refrain.

She paid for it instantly — Numair levered himself over to assail her cheek and temple with wet, silly kisses, making her laugh and squirm and the cat sprawled across her lap protest.

“You’re worse than Tahoi!” she exclaimed, and one of the kisses became an actual lick in response. He let up after that.

Cheeks flushed and tired from laughter, she threaded her arm through his and rested her curly head on his shoulder.

“You know,” she said after a while, “if I try, I can see my magic when I meditate. We talked about it once, when we were on the coast. If I get close, perhaps I can see where it comes from. Not sure I’d recognize what I’m looking at, of course."

Numair glowed. “ _That_ is an excellent idea. Why don’t you try it?”

Daine had a feeling that his love of teaching and learning would always be part of their life, his boyish excitement bubbling up whenever she joined in his enthusiasm. It made her want to do so more often.

Transferring the cat to Numair’s much more spacious lap, Daine sat tailor-style on the rug. The tabby meowed at the continued upheaval but soon resumed purring under the mage’s competent efforts.

“I’ll be right here," Numair added. “I’ll send for some refreshments for when you’re finished.”

Briefly she heard him open a speech spell to the kitchens and put in a request. She closed her eyes, straightened from tailbone to crown and evened out her breathing.

* * *

It took a moment for her attention to fade from their conversation and turn inward, but soon the pool of copper fire that was her magic blossomed into view. It rose like a flooded moat around the bright white column of her humanity, which Numair’s shield still girded from the fire. Gazing at the rune-covered spellwork evoked a steadfast sensation like being warmly encircled in his arms, his distinctive warm and clean scent rising from memory to surround her.

Pulling away, she dove into the riot of copper tendrils like a seal after prey — not inward toward the white light, but downward, willing herself to find their roots, if they had any.

After some minutes, the vision began to grow dim and hazy. She had to concentrate to remember which direction she was going. It was tempting to give up and open her eyes to the clarity of the outside world, but she felt she must be getting close to something. A little further, and she could just make out the streams of copper light trailing down into a dark, wavering distortion.

Concentrating hard now, she tried to follow, but couldn’t. It felt as if she and whatever lay below were two like-ends of the lodestones Miri’s folk used: the harder she pushed, the harder _it_ pushed back against her, without friction or any solidity of its own. She moved along the barrier, testing it, but it felt the same everywhere, and the effort tired her out.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, the cat was crouched on the floor, body tense and eyes glued to something above. A white ribbon danced through the air as if caught on a gust of wind, then swooped like a pair of wings. Finally it wafted down like a feather and the cat sprang for it, curling around it madly and shredding it with teeth and claws.

“No luck,” she reported. “I traced my magic as far as I could, but it disappears somewhere I can’t get to.” She eyed Numair’s expression suspiciously. “You knew that would happen, didn’t you?”

He cleared his throat. “I thought it might, but it’s better that you saw it for yourself. Experience being the best teacher, and so on.”

“The best?” Daine asked innocently. “You must’ve left your ego in the Dragonlands.”

“Very well, magelet. You tell me, what stopped you from following your magic?”

There was a polite call from outside the door and Daine answered it, thanking the servant who passed her a metal tray bearing two tankards. Seeing an opportunity to be underfoot, the tabby wound through Daine’s legs, then the servant’s, then left without a word, carrying the tattered ribbon in his mouth.

Daine set the tray down on the low table and Numair nodded thanks. He took the tankard closest to him and held it between his hands, warming them.

“Where were we?” Daine asked after she sat down. “Right, what happened in my...Subconscious. See, I’m getting better at remembering your high-flown scholar words,” she told Numair’s approvingly raised eyebrows.

“Well, Master Salmalín...” she stalled in an impression of his stuffier colleagues, “as any _initiate_ could see...it’s _trivial_ that the explanation is...” she bit her lip and let the silence stretch, hoping he’d crack and give her a hint. But he’d been wise to that ploy for ages.

She sighed and thought some more. “All right…well, I went down a long ways, then I hit something. Could it be, I went so far I reached the end of my Subconscious?” Numair watched her face expectantly, like he was waiting for Lindhall’s turtle to reach a cucumber slice just one more step away. “...Because my magic doesn’t come from there, but the _next_ level, and that one doesn’t like to let people in.”

“Smith God’s hammer,” Numair pronounced.

Daine took a celebratory sip of her drink. It was a seasonal treat, cider pressed from sweet-tart apples, stewed with warm spices from the south and served piping hot. Kitten perked up at the sound of slurping and her paws were on Daine’s knee in an instant, blue muzzle questing toward her tankard.

Daine retrieved a teacup from the dining table and poured a bit of the cloudy amber beverage into it, chuckling as Kitten chose to start with the dribble Daine caught on her hand. She passed the cup to the dragonet.

“That’s cider cooked with cloves, cinnamon and...not licorice...”

“Anise,” Numair supplied. They weren’t sure whether talking directly to Kitten would help her learn mind-speech any sooner, but they’d agreed it was good for her development anyway.

“Yes, that. In another few weeks it’ll be hard cider, so best you get to try it now.” She and Numair were also in agreement that while alcohol was unlikely to affect the young dragon in the slightest, putting that assumption to the test just wouldn’t be good parenting.

When the teacup was empty, Daine pulled Kitten onto the sofa and petted the back of her long neck, hoping she’d sit still. Fortunately, she seemed to be in a listening mood.

“So, what _is_ on the other side of...whatever that was?” Daine asked.

“Mmph,” said Numair, raising his tankard in acknowledgement. He’d taken a drink before Daine spoke, and almost started answering before swallowing it. “We didn’t get to that, did we, on the coast. Mithros, what an exhausting time.” Kitten chirped low in agreement.

“Indeed, the realm you couldn’t reach is the third level of the mind, the _Un_ conscious. We said before that the Gift comes from surplus energy that the life force gives off — the life force dwells throughout the body, but the Unconscious is where it connects to the mind and gives it...well, life. Here,”

He went to the dining table and searched the stacks of books. He pulled out a slim volume and flipped to a page near the beginning, handing the open book to Daine.

The page bore a two-color woodcut showing a red crystalline structure like a cedar branch. Above it were rendered swirls of blue that rose to the top of the frame. The inscription read, _The Gift emanating from the Life-Force at its Nexus with the Mind._

“So, this is an...arm of the life force?” Daine asked, hovering her finger over the red branch.

“Yes, and now we come to the crux.”

Numair tugged his nose again; Daine smiled at that, but he was too engrossed in the matter at hand to notice.

“The Unconscious is not well characterized, because it’s problematic to study. The easiest way to learn about the mind is to explore one’s own. But as you’ve seen, the third level is shielded, presumably against focus attacks and the like. It only becomes accessible when a mage is near-fatally drained, or by use of special meditations or sleeping spells. But even then it’s impossible to see one’s own Unconscious, because it makes little to no impression upon the Conscious — it’s simply too far away, or so the theory goes.”

Daine felt fairly snowed under, but something nagged at her.

“If the Unconscious can’t be studied,” she said shrewdly, “how do they know what’s there?”

“Ah. Well, it can be studied, just not by introspection. Given a cooperative subject, a mage can project into someone else’s mind, even to the third level if he’s strong enough. But it’s not a trivial undertaking. The meditation involved is tricky, and the working requires trust, for magical reasons as well as the obvious. There are enough accounts to draw conclusions about the Gift,” Numair glanced at the profusion of books, “but wild magic is an under-researched area, especially in esoteric matters like this.”

“You could do it, though,” she said, and Kit nodded. Daine had only ever heard the word ‘esoteric’ in reference to Numair’s studies, usually alongside jokes about the red robe not having been pretty enough.

“In theory,” he said modestly. “I do have the requisite background.”

Daine mulled it over. It was strange, but the idea intrigued her somehow — of being the first to know something. Or to be known about, perhaps. Cloud would think she was crazy. “Do you want to try it? With me, I mean.”

Numair’s eyes went wide for a moment, then he pressed his lips to his knuckles in thought. He studied Daine.

“Tell me...are you asking for your own sake? The prospect is fascinating, but you’re not obligated to help with research simply because you have a rare magic. Or because you’ve abandoned reason and taken up with a scholar,” he said wryly.

“No, that’s not it,” Daine smiled.

“Good. You must know that I love every part of you, not just your beautiful magic.”

His sincerity warmed her far more than the cider had.

“I think you said something about experience?” she crooned, kneeling up on the cushion beside him. She turned his face, feeling the coarse shadow on his jaw, and took her time kissing him. His arm circled her waist, and with her free hand she idly freed a few more pieces of his hair.

Kit chattered disagreeably and hid her slender head under a wing.

When they broke, Numair chuckled and gave up on his hair tie entirely. Daine installed herself across his lap and carded her fingers through his dark mane, fluffing out the wavy texture even more.

She thought again and felt even more confident. “Do you know, I’m fair curious about my magic? Could be you're rubbing off on me, but now I know there _is_ something to know...it could be interesting. And I like seeing you ply your spells — when we're not fighting for our lives, I mean.”

“You like watching me work? I didn’t know that.” He looked both pleased and intrigued by that piece of information.

“Don’t let it go to your head, now.”

He smiled ruefully. “There’s little danger of that. Not when there are still a number of _imaginative_ threats against my person, should I ever serve you imperfectly. Onua would have me for horse feed if she thought I was roping you into one of my mad experiments.”

“Onua’d never do that. It’d make the ponies ill,” Daine grinned.

He laughed. “I see how it is. Very well — give me a few days to look into it, and if I’m certain that I can do it safely, I’ll plan the working and we can talk it over."

“Wonderful. But your research will have to wait ‘til the morrow, I expect.”

Numair looked at her blankly; it wasn’t _that_ late. “Why’s that, sweet?”

“Because I’m for bed soon, and I’ve a feeling you’ll be called upon to serve.”

She smiled and twisted his shirt strings in a way that damned all possibility of further reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Almost a week later, Daine was checking a brace of older Riders’ bows for need of repair when she spied her love approaching the range.

“Taking my Da’s advice?” she called. Weiryn had been surprisingly civil at the fall equinox, but the hunt god had still insisted that Numair could have simply shot Inar Hadensra and been done with it, had he honed his archery skills instead of _toying with magic_.

“Not a chance.” The mage in question greeted her with a kiss and a napkin-wrapped shortbread saved from breakfast.

“Bribery, Trainee? Mayhap you’re learning.” She took the treat, a crumbly rectangle studded with dried cherries, and bit off a corner.

He leaned in, dark eyes inviting. “I came to ask — are you still interested in that experiment we discussed?”

In truth she’d been thinking about it. “Of course.”

“We could see about trying it tonight, if you don’t have anything early tomorrow. It may take a while.”

“I'll be free as an eagle.” She smiled at his look of excitement. “Will you need a hand with anything? I’m headed to the quartermaster, if you need a supply run,” she offered. Her eyes danced. “You know...wool of bat, lichens from the shadow of an ogre’s privy...” she ad libbed, both of them shaking in mirth.

The image of Daine as an old sorcerer's apprentice had been a running joke since Harvest, when they’d helped rid an iron mine of holdout spidrens. Afterward at the keep, Daine completely out of arrows and covered in web and minor burns, the clueless baron had asked whether she found it tiring to carry Numair's equipment and run his messages, and _wouldn’t some more domestic work be easier_.

“Thanks,” Numair said, when he’d stopped laughing enough to speak. “I’ll take care of the setup, it’s nothing complex. If no one needs healing, you might do a bit of shifting. It may be easier to see how your power rebuilds if you've used some. Don't tire yourself, though, we'll want you awake.”

“Do you think we'll have enough time, without interruptions?”

He knew what she meant without asking. “Lindhall said he'd be happy to look after Kit, I just need to confirm it with him.”

“The Great Mother bless that man,” she said earnestly. “Supper with the Riders, then?”

* * *

The two mages and their dragonet joined Onua, Sarge and Buri for the early supper served in the Riders' mess. As usual, Kitten wheedled Sarge into hoisting her high into the air and then catching her, a game that always garnered her loudest screeches of delight. 

A few new faces turned in alarm, looking for the source of the sound. Since the war had upended the year's training schedule, Buri had opted to take on recruits from Harvest to All Hallows’, hoping to pull off an intensive winter training. Those who'd already trickled in divided their time between preliminary training and what Buri affectionately called "volunteer work," meaning tedious manual labor on repair efforts around Corus and Port Caynn.

The meal was one Daine liked, a popular Bazhir dish of chickpeas smashed with olive oil, thyme and salt and eaten with lightly toasted flatbread. When the dessert of dried dates was gone and the trainees began clearing the tables for lessons, Daine stood to make an exit. Numair joined her, Daine stacking their plates as he wrangled Kitten away from the tray where the dates had been.

“Don't you want to stay and help teach?” Buri asked Numair. “It’s poisons tonight,” she tempted.

He looked genuinely sad to miss it. “Another time. Daine and I have plans.”

“Teaching him where the saddle horn is?” Onua asked Daine, tongue-in-cheek. Daine lightly shoved her, suppressing laughter.

“Not— plans for _research_ ,” Numair clarified, unamused. 

That made it worse; the whole group laughed, even Sarge, who was normally above such juvenile humor.

Onua smiled smugly. “I can overlook you wooing my deputy — only because she likes you — but you’d better not be boring her to death.”

Numair turned back to Buri as if he’d heard only the wind. “Make sure that they can recognize baneberry. It's fast-acting, easy to distill, and grows in most forested regions,” he said. “One of my favorites,” he added with characteristic zeal. If he happened to be looking right at Onua when he said that, it was mere coincidence. “Goodnight, everyone.”

* * *

The couple parted ways in the academics’ wing, Numair taking Kitten while Daine headed home to wash off the dust and sweat from her brief jaunt around the pasture as a racing horse.

“Take your time,” he said. “I'll escort _Mistress Skysong_ -” Kit squealed at the imitation of Lindhall and accompanying tickle “-to her admirer for the night. There's no need to dress, we'll be staying in,” he added lightly.

“Be good, now,” she told their charge. “Try not to tussle with Sunstone — that turtle’s old enough to be your grandda. Well, not _your_ grandda, but all the same.”

She stroked the side of Kit's muzzle and looked up at Numair. “Tell Lindhall I'm sweet on him. And his finches have been wanting more dandelion seeds, if he has 'em.”

“Careful, I’m a jealous man.” He winked. “I’ll relay the sentiment.”

* * *

By the time Daine emerged in a comfortable shift, dressing gown and slippers, Numair was back in their quarters and waiting on the sofa. His hair was neatly re-tied, he'd rolled his sleeves up over his lean forearms, and his black opal pendant hung glittering outside his shirt. He'd been examining one last scroll but set it aside as soon as Daine came in. His face lit up when he saw her, no differently than if she’d entered in silk and sapphires.

He patted the cushion next to him eagerly and poured her a mug of something hot and botanical from the silver teapot. Reading her sidelong look, he raised his hands in self-defense. 

“This one's good, I promise,” he said, smiling.

It turned out to be a familiar blend of apple-sweet chamomile, cool peppermint and tart rose hips, but with lemongrass added, and absent the valerian root they’d use if one of them was having trouble sleeping. A restorative brew without summoning Lord Gainel, if Daine's herb lore served. 

“So, how does this work?” she asked. “You talked of planning something, but knowing you and plans..." Numair’s relationship with plans was like his relationship with meals; often he forgot to have them when he meant to, while other times he took them to an extent that was almost concerning.

“You missed your calling as a jester, dear one. Just listen and let me know what you think.”

He draped an arm over the cushion behind her and she settled back, sipping her tea.

“The working we discussed entails getting me, or rather my magical projection, into your Unconscious to take a look at the roots of your power. For that to happen, you’ll need to meditate, deeply enough that you reach a state of near-perfect calm and relaxation. Under those conditions, the barrier that protects your Unconscious should lower enough to grant me passage.”

“Like a horse, then.”

Numair paused, thinking. “You’ll have to help me with that one, sweet.”

Daine blushed a little. “Horses, and ponies — they only lie down when they feel completely safe. When it’s quiet, and no predators are about, and the herd is keeping watch. Rabbits are like that, too. But this must be more complicated, I expect.” 

“No, you understand perfectly. Perhaps there _is_ a horse metaphor for everything,” he mused.

“See, I told you,” Daine replied happily. “Now, this perfect calm thing sounds lovely, but if I had that in me...well, Kaddar wouldn’t need a new palace.” She kept an eye on Numair’s face; it was only since Ozorne’s death that either of them could joke about Carthak, and only somewhat cautiously.

“Right — it typically requires training. We could pack you off to the City of the Gods,” he smiled at her unenthused expression, “but that would take months, and I’d miss you. So, I suggest we use a spell to help you instead.” He indicated a line of symbols on the scroll he'd been perusing, though they meant as much to the Wildmage as hen tracks.

“So, what you're saying is, we're going to cheat?”

"Like the Lady at dice,” he agreed, referring to the Graveyard Hag obliquely so as not to risk drawing her attention.

"It shouldn't take much," he elaborated. “The key will be getting you nice and relaxed before we start. Once you're in the right frame of mind, I'll ask you to meditate, and all you’ll have to do is what you normally would — breathe slowly and let your thoughts come and go. The spell will take care of the rest.”

“That sounds easy enough.”

“I hope so. After that I'll join my mind to yours,” he tapped her temple, "and attempt to cross into your Unconscious. If I’m successful, I'll follow your magic and make whatever observations may be possible. If we learn something worth sharing, you can decide whether or not we do.”

Daine nodded her understanding.

Numair touched his left wrist absently. Seeming to remember it was there, he unclasped his bracelet and slipped it, still invisible, into his shirt pocket.

"The only thing I'm not sure about is what you'll experience while meditating. The texts aren’t detailed on the matter — that's another thing that we may be able to rectify. You won't see what I'm seeing, at least not in any detail, but you may have some sense of my actions. Or you may not be aware at all. Or some third eventuality.”

"At least you’ve thought of all the options,” Daine said wryly.

"If you are much aware, it’s possible that my presence will feel strange; possibly disconcerting." He tapped the side of his nose, weighing a notion. "I wonder...the working I placed in your mind, to separate your human self from your magic — has it ever bothered you, even at first? As if something were there that shouldn't be?" 

Daine shook her head. "I didn't even know that was possible. I can't feel it at all unless I’m looking at it."

He smiled. "Good. You seemed to do well with it, but things like that are highly individual. And you were harder to read in those days," he added fondly. "I think that suggests that your mind will accept my magical presence, even on a deeper level. But in any case, I won't linger, and if I sense you’re in distress I'll stop at once," he promised.

"So, what do you think — shall we make an attempt? It’s absolutely fine if this remains theoretical. And you don’t have to decide now, of course, if you'd like more time to consider it.”

Daine smiled to herself at that; in a way, his manner reminded her of when they’d first made love. He’d taken such care to make her feel unhurried and unpressured, despite the obvious fact of his desire. Ironically, Daine found his self-mastery incredibly sexy; both the security it offered and the prospect of testing its limits. And if the uncertainty of war had taught her anything, it was how to say yes to what she wanted — she suspected that went double for Numair.

What they were talking about wasn’t so different, she thought. The phrase _intimate knowledge_ came to mind. It was possible that she wouldn’t like the experience, and it registered faintly that Numair could see something in her mind that might turn him away — but neither really concerned her. She’d always faced risks to grow in her magic, and so far they had been worth it.

Making up her mind, she nodded. "Yes...yes, let’s try it. It seems like a sound plan." Suddenly her thoughts turned back to Numair's shield spell, to what it was designed to prevent. She shifted in her seat. "Only, about this meditation. Will it be hard to come back to myself afterwards? What if I don't know how?"

"A wise question, as usual. Simply ending contact should bring you out of it. If you're tired, you might enter a natural sleep and wake up when you're rested. In the worst case, there's always your favorite flower," he teased lightly, grinning at her wrinkled nose, "but rest assured it won't be necessary. We'll be in very safe territory, or I wouldn't dream of involving you. And not just because I like my dominion jewels, as Thayet so charmingly called them." 

Daine laughed, and they sat quietly for a few moments. She savored the lack of any urgent problems and the last of the warm tea, which was really quite pleasant. Lemongrass took on an elevating, slightly spicy quality when Numair brewed it, despite that it was imported infrequently from Siraj and the dried, muted green shards were little better than straw when Daine steeped them. She'd have to get the secret from him sometime.

She set her empty mug on the low table. "I feel fair relaxed now," she said brightly. "Are you ready to try the spell?"

Something sparkled behind his long lashes. "Not just yet, magelet. There are a few more steps, and my workroom will be more amenable," he said cryptically, and Daine raised an eyebrow. "I could explain in detail, but trust on your part will greatly increase our odds of success, if you’ll indulge me. Has your humble servant ever steered you wrong?"

Daine thought about answering that, but the ‘simple shortcut' that had left them, Tkaa and Kitten on the side of Mount Yaanek in a snowstorm was already mentioned once at supper, and she had to leave the man with _some_ dignity.

"I s’pose you're trustworthy enough, for a two-legger,” she said, giving him a squeeze around the waist.

He kissed her hair, then stood and offered his hand.

* * *

Daine had only been in Numair’s workroom a few times, but she got the impression that he’d tidied it a little and aired it out. It was dark outside the high, sheer-curtained window. Numair set a glass globe to providing soft light, supplemented by a small fire in the grate.

The clutter of hand-mirrors and lenses, spools of thread and wire, measuring devices and parchments that normally occupied the rectangular central table had been moved to the workbenches lining the walls. In their place were some linens; a thick duvet and a blanket, folded square and stacked at one end. She wondered at that — he’d mentioned that she might fall asleep, but their bed was only two rooms away, and he normally wouldn’t object to carrying her. Perhaps he'd be exhausted, too. It did sound like he’d be doing most of the work.

"'S cleaner than the last time I was in here," said Daine approvingly. "The brimstone smell’s gone, too."

Numair ignored that. He looked around for something, then found it on a shelf near the ceiling. 

He lifted a large, flat case down to the unoccupied end of the worktable and opened it. Like a merchant’s sample case, the inside comprised a hundred or so small cubicles. Each contained several pieces of a different stone, from dull gray pebbles to faceted jewels that shone with inner fire. It was dizzying to look at.

“Now, let’s see. I’ll need your hand back.” 

Curious, Daine slipped her hand into Numair’s larger one and he held it securely. The man tended to radiate heat even when he wasn’t using his Gift, but now his grip was downright toasty.

He passed his free hand over the case, and a moment later one of the little boxes started shimmering with black sparks. He glanced at the open door behind them, but there was nothing there. The next moment, Numair was plucking a small blue-green object out of thin air and presenting it to her with a flourish.

Daine gave the familiar sleight-of-hand trick a tolerant smile and accepted the stone. It was a carved crystal that resembled a robin’s egg, only glossy and semi-translucent. 

“Do you know that one?”

Daine shook her head.

“It’s aquamarine. It signifies courage and safe journeys. It resonated with your energetic state.” At Daine’s blank look he explained, “It likes you. Or more properly, it _is_ like you at the moment, in some aspect.”

He returned to the array of stones. “As for me...” He passed a hand over the case again, the sparks now gathering over a flattened oval specimen with a dark, mirror-like surface. Daine remembered it from her mother’s healing kit back in Snowsdale; it would be cool to the touch and heavy for its size. 

“Hematite,” Daine recalled. “It wards off bleeding in childbirth and helps with monthlies.” A smile played at her lips. “That one thinks you’re kin?”

“It also represents the mind, which is on _my_ mind tonight. A little on the nose,” he told the hematite affectionately. “Though it also means anchoring, and care of precious things,” he added quietly, polishing the stone with a thumb.

He showed Daine part of the benchtop that had a circular groove carved into it. Taking a handful of salt from a large wooden mortar, he quickly filled in the groove and collected the excess to make a perfectly even circle. He placed the hematite at the bottom and gestured for Daine to set the aquamarine across from it.

Watching the egg-shaped stone wobble, he explained, “I’m trying a bit of image magic. Not the usual kind. I’m curious whether my opal can store a likeness of your Unconscious, so that afterward you can see for yourself what it looks like.” He lowered his voice and laid his fingers over his pendant as if covering its ears. “It’ll need to borrow some properties from other stones, though.”

Daine didn’t ask why Numair was protecting his opal’s vanity; frankly she was used to that kind of behavior.

“Now we’ll just need jasper for visualization...diamond for clarity...and marble for memory,” he listed, deftly locating the stones and picking them up. “Oh, and citrine for luck. Some say appealing to luck is undignified — but my rituals work, and theirs don’t,” he grinned.

He placed the new additions evenly around the circle, the tiny diamond almost disappearing against the salt. 

“What about the first two?” Daine asked. Numair had a whole shelf of books on stone magic, none of which she’d read.

“They represent us. Binding the spell to caster and subject ought to stabilize the image, like a painter’s easel.” He tugged at his nose, thinking. “In fact...yes, why not. Let’s have you do the honors.” He gestured in the direction of the arranged materials.

He seemed to be expecting something. What, she had no idea.

“Charge the salt, love,” he said helpfully.

She stared at him. He couldn’t be _that_ forgetful. “I can’t. ...Remember? _Wild magic?_ ”

He looked puzzled, then amused as he understood. “Ah, I see the confusion. But of course you can. Saltwater conducts your magic, doesn’t it?” Daine supposed that was true. “So will this. I should have a word with whoever trained you,” he added playfully.

“He _was_ awfully scatterbrained, now you mention it,” Daine retorted, laughing, and Numair ruffled her hair, nearly unbalancing her.

“Now, to work,” he directed. “Just give it a little bit of power. Think of it as...teaching the spell your scent. Like a horse.” He paused for appreciation; Daine obliged with an approving nod. “Though I suppose it’s more like an eel,” he said, looking at the circle with his head turned sideways. “Or a sleeping cat? Up to you.”

She touched the salt, and indeed it was easy to draw up a drop of her magic and let it wick from her fingertips. A warm glow spread all the way around the circle in both directions, reminding her of a sunrise. It faded almost immediately, but Numair seemed satisfied.

He asked Daine to close the door — one of unusually heavy timber bound with rune-etched iron bars — then took off his pendant and held it to his lips, eyes closed and mouth moving soundlessly.

Daine started as the salt circle burst into a ring of black fire with a _whoosh_ like igniting an oil lamp. To her fascination, each tongue of flame had a center the color of her own magic. The translucent stones smouldered in their respective colors; the dark hematite reflected only the copper. With careful focus, Numair lowered the pendant into the center of the circle by its chain. When his hand was clear, the ring of black fire contracted, racing into the opal and making it glow so brightly that beams of jewel-toned light covered the walls and ceiling. The gem slowly darkened and Numair held it in front of his face, squinting at it.

“Did it work?” Daine asked, still in awe of the display.

“There’s one way to find out. Last call for the privy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading your comments, dear readers!


	4. Chapter 4

When Daine returned, the linens she’d seen earlier lay over the worktable, the large duvet folded triple so that it fit neatly on top. The cotton blanket that normally lived in the sitting room lay across it, folded over what she supposed was the foot.

“Is this for me?” she asked, eyeing the makeshift bed.

Numair nodded. He was feeding the fire, though by Daine’s standards the room hadn’t been cold.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he answered over his shoulder. He made it sound as normal and routine as making camp bread.

The table had clearly been built for Numair’s comfort — including the duvet, it came up almost to her armpits — but there was an equally oversized stool that would do as a foothold if necessary. She'd started toward it when he spoke again, in the same placid manner.

“As the Goddess made you, my dear.”

Well. It was certainly the most scholarly way she’d been asked to take her clothes off.

The instruction wasn’t so odd, on balance — she’d seen it now and then in descriptions of spells, though usually it preceded bathing in saltwater, or in the light of a certain moon. What was stranger was the lack of impromptu lecture on optimizing influences, or whatever the reason was. Instead, Numair finished with the fire, wiped his hands on a cloth and strode to a cabinet near the back of the room. She understood that she was meant to relax and leave the hows and whys to him, for once — but she missed the flood of information.

She found room for her dressing gown and shift between a stone scrying bowl and a rack of wands cut from various trees. She tucked her slippers under the worktable, then climbed up to perch on it.

Sitting atop the table, she was almost as tall as its owner. It reminded her of shapeshifting, enjoying a bird’s eye view of the room while her feet hung in the air. Interesting, to think that Numair saw the world this way all the time. It also gave her a particularly nice angle on the way his cream-colored shirt skimmed over his well-built upper body, setting off the warm tan of his skin. He looked every bit the master mage, capable and composed in his element.

She wondered if she could fluster him.

“You know, my love,” she said wickedly, “if you want me without my clothes, you’ve only to ask. There's no need to pretend it's for research.”

He clucked his tongue and shot her a white smile like a meteorite. “Incorrigible. Were we elsewhere, I might teach you some manners,” he responded in kind. He pulled a cork from a square bottle and poured a measure of something into a flask. “But we mustn't get distracted, I’m afraid. Lie down and get comfortable; I need a moment to prepare, and then we can start.”

Daine burrowed under the blanket, and after a bit of trial and error found a position where she could still see what was going on, though not as well as before. Lying on her front with her chin propped in her hand, a poke reminded her that she was still wearing the badger’s claw. After a moment’s debate, she removed it, keeping it safely next to her. Numair might have resisted her flirtation, but if she asked him whether a divine object counted as clothing for magical purposes, he was likely to argue with himself until the sun came up.

She watched as her tall sorcerer drew small bottles of dark glass from the cabinet, scrutinizing their labels and occasionally sniffing their contents. From those he kept, he counted drops into the vessel with a practiced hand. As he worked, Daine detected hints of some of the potent essences prized by mages and healers — rosewater or rose attar, herbaceous lavender, medicinal sage or perhaps arnica — and something akin to the amber-colored resin used as incense in Mithran temples. She wondered what this had to do with the working. It didn't resemble the powdery mixtures used to cast circles or enchant a fire, but she wasn't sure all those ingredients were edible, either.

When the potion was apparently complete, there was a rustle of parchment as Numair began leafing through a notebook inked with charts and diagrams, a finger pressed to his lips in thought. For all his earlier humor, he seemed to be growing quite serious about the task at hand. His bearing spoke of inner quiet and concentration. Now and then he absently sketched a few shapes in the air, without black fire, as if practicing.

Daine was familiar enough with Gifted magic to know that what Numair had done to the opal earlier was advanced craft, requiring a fair bit of power applied with delicacy. Yet, he hadn't needed notes for that, in fact he’d been improvising at times. That he was using them now, and his manner no longer seemed so casual, was food for thought.

For all the amusing tales of Numair preoccupied, his mind away in his workroom, and for all she’d seen him act that way herself...it struck Daine that she knew relatively little about what happened on this side of the door.

There was no question that her lover was brilliant and drawn to the arcane. Surrounded by the tools of his calling, she remembered another covered form on another table, a purpose-built body lifelike enough to fool an emperor. She’d seen other bodies turned to water, or wood, with a cry or gesture. And before any of those, a calm presence stepping into a fragile psyche as into a room, repairing what the gods had left broken. Those were the kinds of things a black-robe mage could do, not even considering experiments planned at leisure.

She also knew that earning the robe had involved trials so hazardous and mysterious that most mages couldn’t or wouldn’t speak of them. Numair tended to downplay that part of his life, but still, he’d taken it on voluntarily. The kind of person who would choose such a path...research would be no quaint hobby, Daine thought. Deep down, there’d be a need to delve into the unknown. To shine a bright light into a hidden place and lay bare all its secrets, as only he could.

During the war, he’d been prevented. He'd fortified camps and felled enemies in wreaths of black fire, but rarely tested the natural order more than that, caged as he was by exhaustion and the king’s edict. Now that was over and Numair would be making up for lost time, stiletto-sharp intellect and staggering magical resources itching to bear on something.

Or someone.

Odd’s bobs, but she hadn't expected to be nervous.

Sure that she'd been waiting more than “a moment” by now, she shivered a little despite the blanket and the fire. She was no stranger to out-of-the-way experiences, but lying here, waiting to learn first-hand exactly what was in that notebook...apprehension was quickly gaining on curiosity. It coiled uneasily like a ball python in her belly.

At that thought, Numair moved his flask to the benchtop across from the table, then closed the door. It made a final sort of sound. She heard rummaging in a drawer, then a chime that rang with a high, clear note and made the air feel like it had rained — a way to purify a room of stray magical energies, Daine recalled. Finally, he came over and rested a hand across the small of her blanketed back. She craned her neck to look at him, wondering if he could feel the way her heart was thudding.

“How are you feeling?”

She grimaced; this probably wasn’t the time for bravado. “A little nervous.” She tried to smile to make light of it.

“That’s entirely normal,” he assured her, a soothing tone in his voice. He pulled over the stool and sat where she could see him more easily. “There’s something I’d like to do for you, that I think will help. It's a healing method that I learned during my course of study in medicines, before I undertook my mastery. The principle is to lay hands on the body, and apply pressure and stretching to each muscle group in turn. Most people find that it induces relaxation. Will you allow me to show you?”

It didn't sound like any healing Daine knew of, nor did she particularly need healing.

On the other hand, having him near and hearing him talk was already calming her runaway imagination. She knew deep in her bones that the gentle-natured mage wouldn't risk her well-being for anything. Nor had she known him to be less than thoroughly, impressively competent in any skill or subject of his learning. If he wanted to do something to her, she could trust that it would be safe, no matter how strange it sounded.

Reaching a decision, she gave a small nod. “Go ahead.”

He smiled encouragingly. He stood and pushed in the stool, then returned his hand to her back and patted it.

“All right, sweetling, lie all the way down for me.”

A bit stiffly, Daine eased herself down until her cheek touched the padded surface, her temple resting atop her hands. Numair gathered the dense curls off her neck and back and swept them to the side, raking his fingers through gently. He folded the blanket down to the swell of her hips, exposing the lean expanse of her back. “Just say the word if what I'm doing is too much, or if you want to stop,” he said.

He took some of the concoction he'd prepared and rubbed it between his palms...and Daine’s anxieties evaporated. Warmed, the oil threw off a scent that was luxuriant, mildly sweet and utterly captivating. It put her in mind of a gold-laden temple in a sunlit wood, redolent with offerings of fresh flowers and honeycomb.

His hands alighted on her back and he began making soft, sweeping motions all the way from the tops of her hips to her shoulders and back down again, extending outwards and sowing the fragrant mixture everywhere as he went. His hands felt wonderfully warm and solid, and she could feel their unique contours and calluses as his palms slid over her oiled skin.

“Feels nice,” she murmured.

“Good,” said Numair, just as softly.

Gradually, he began to deepen the technique. A portion of his body weight flowed into her through the heel of his hand and the flat tops of his curled fingers, elongating the muscle with each movement. It built to just a shade too intense for comfort, then transformed into bliss as she let it happen, breathing in the soothing aroma and melting bit by bit into the plush duvet.

His hands converged at the tops of her shoulders to either side of her neck, where his thumbs nestled in deeply with a patient, irresistible pressure that felt perversely satisfying.

“Still nice?”

Daine’s reply fell halfway between “mm-hmm” and a whimper, but the meaning was clear.

She purred, low and rumbling, when he more gently kneaded a stretch of muscle between shoulder blade and spine. She could hear deep amusement in his voice as he explained, “That’s your right rhomboid major muscle. It retracts the scapula-” he traced the outline of her shoulder blade, “toward the thoracic vertebrae,” he ran a thumb slowly and firmly alongside her spine. He sounded like the cat who'd got the cream; it was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing to her. “A little tightness is to be expected, given your bow practice,” he confided in the same contented tone.

He indulged the area a long moment more, then moved to the corresponding muscles on the other side. The first, expertly metered dose of pressure there was like easing into a hot bath after a cold day of travel; momentary stiffness thawing into tender pliability.

He sought out each muscle group used in archery or lifting tack, and even the delicate neck muscles taxed by her posture when she healed small animals. Whether by skill or magic, somehow he knew exactly where, and how, and how hard to touch to render it entirely too much trouble to think of anything but how good it felt. He flirted with the line between pleasure and excess, coaxing her body to accept his ministrations, then bask in them...then flowing to the next place and starting the process over from the beginning. Each time, his hands found the spots that called out for more pressure, as surely as mother birds went to their nests.

Perhaps this was comeuppance — she mused, during one of the brief reprieves when his hands left her body for more oil — for all the times she hadn't let him fuss over knocks she’d taken in battle or training. Now she was well and truly caught, and there’d be no release until he was satisfied.

He carried on softly narrating what he was doing, growing meditative, as if talking to himself. When her breath hitched over a sensitive area on her mid-back, he whispered an apology and held his palm flat against her skin, commenting that the _thoraco-lumbar junction_ took strain in some of her mammalian forms. He went quiet a moment, then soothing heat sank deep into the tissue. When her breath slowed again, he rubbed the pads of his fingers in tiny, exquisite motions until the soreness yielded like a page sparring a knight.

When he re-covered her back and moved the blanket to free her right leg, Daine closed her eyes and let the sound of his light, midrange voice wash over her. It was one of the first things she'd noticed about him, how nice he was to listen to, and it had only gotten nicer. The calm personal anatomy lesson — he always did enjoy teaching the subject — was a layer of rose petals over whatever slow, achingly delicious thing he was doing at the base of her hip. He’d probably said what it was, but she was in no condition to care about words. They only added to the aurora of rich colors in her mind’s eye and the otherworldly pleasure tingling across her skin.

By the time he was done with her left leg and her feet, she would’ve been hard pressed to remember where she was, or why.

She turned over at his instruction and he worked his way back up, attending at length to the pectoral muscles that served her so well in flight.

His touch turned careful and assessing over the places she'd been injured in the last few years; the right triceps where she'd taken an arrow as a goose; the left palm she'd cut on Ozorne's wing. Only when the man was sure that he wouldn’t hurt her did he apply pressure beyond the tap of a cat's paw. Years of unfailing respect for her strength made it lovely, not cloying, now to be treated the same way he would a delicate fossil.

He extended her arm, his large hand holding her wrist, and she surfaced enough to catch a glimpse of him through half-lidded eyes. The narration had stopped some time ago and he was in a reverie, completely absorbed and completely at peace. When he checked her face, he favored her with a warm, dreamy sort of smile, then returned to his work, compressing down the length of her forearm in a way that felt like an embrace and made her fingers curl involuntarily.

Finally, he reached her head, tucking the blanket around the rest of her form and quietly positioning the stool so that he could sit facing her crown. Her curls were anointed with the last drops of aromatic oil as he cradled her head in both hands, expertly stroking up and down the juncture between neck and scalp. It lasted for what seemed like ages, and the last thought that drifted lazily through Daine’s head was that she supposed this had to qualify as being very, very good.

By now, quiet had fallen over the grounds and the workroom was lit only by firelight, Numair having let the globe-spell fade. Slowly his fingers stilled and he lowered her head back onto the pillowy surface.

“How do you feel?” he asked again, close to her ear.

She felt like cinnamon steeping in cider, like a colony of bats roosting in their cave, like the sound of the word _magelet_. Feather-light and cocooned, perfectly safe and warm and at ease. She was comfortable enough to fall asleep, yet felt no need to do so; she drifted on a cloud of well-rested clarity.

What she said was, “mmmmm,” and her lips quirked into a sated smile.

He bowed over her head and a tender, upside-down kiss blossomed in the middle of her brow. “Now you’re ready to meditate.”

* * *

“Deep breaths,” Numair intoned, both hands resting on her shoulders. “Just like that; that’s perfect.”

Without effort or thinking, Daine sank into the slow, deep breathing pattern and tranquil focus of her familiar meditation practice.

For the first time since she'd learned to do it, her body felt utterly content. Not a single nerve distracted her with an ache or an itch. More than that, a tension she hadn't known she'd been holding on to was gone, like unstringing a bow at the end of a long siege.

Her mind felt like the ocean tide, undisturbed but for the awareness of her breath rolling in and out. Soon, even that felt distant, like it belonged to another person.

Dimly she registered Numair's hands leaving her shoulders and his fingertips finding her temples. On her next inhale, his fingers started to move in careful, symmetrical movements, a long sequence of circles, lines and tiny dots. Each shape gave off a dusting of sparkles in shadow that diffused into Daine’s vision at the edges of her softly closed eyelids.

As he traced another set of sigils against her skin, he chanted slowly in time with them, his voice barely above a whisper. Daine didn’t understand the words, but the sound was both familiar and hypnotic, making her feel pleasantly unmoored.

The effect was compelling, and it was the work of a few moments for the space behind Daine’s eyelids to become a black sky filled with thousands of twinkling stars. Its weight eased her down under the waves where she floated in perfect contentment, breathing fluidly as if she had gills.

There was no thought or purpose, no cause or effect, no wanting, no self. There was only the dark water weightlessly supporting her and the current flowing almost imperceptibly across her, caressing her.

Slowly, with no discernable beginning, dim white lights like docile sparks appeared here and there, hanging in the space around her.

Next came feelings, swirling and dispersing like a wisp of smoke: determination, intense curiosity, deep gratitude, solicitude. A moment of concentration and exertion — then for a flash, the water went hot and full of close, disorienting color and sound; the bewilderment of slipping on ice and the gasp of waking from a fever dream. But it was gone in an instant, the whisper of the tide and the cool darkness embracing her once more, as if it had never happened.

After what might have been a long time, or only a few moments, a frisson rippled through the delicate lights. From a long way off, there was something like the faintest echo of whale song; a sense of awe, humility, and brief contemplation — and then something else, like a whisper of several voices shaped into one. Then the lights around her slowly rose, reached the surface and disappeared, leaving behind the peaceful dark and an abiding sense of love.

* * *

The pure note of the chime seemed to ring softly through Daine’s head, calling her as if from a deep sleep — but she didn’t think she had been. She pushed up in a daze, blinking and looking in confusion at the room and her vantage point high off the ground. She mumbled an incoherent question and Numair strode over quickly as she moved to sit up.

“All's well, sweet. We're at home, in my workroom.” For once, he didn't ask how she was feeling, just watched her until she came back to herself, his dark features drawn but very pleased.

Finally Daine yawned, then nodded. “What happened? I was meditating, and then...floating, somewhere. Like nothing I've ever felt before.”

“It worked,” he said. She could smell fresh perspiration, as if he’d been running. “You did perfectly, magelet. And so did I, if I may say so.” He smiled, watching her lean heavily on an arm, fighting to keep her eyes open. “I have a great deal to tell you, and hopefully show you. But I think we had better trade experiences in the morning.”

He fastened the badger’s claw back around her neck, then found her dressing gown and helped her into it. She climbed down to her waiting slippers and Numair escorted her to bed. She was deeply asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


End file.
